


Deceptive Cadence

by bluphacelia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Play, Blowjobs, Bodyworship, Drunken sex, Enemies to Lovers, Keith Reporter, Keith has the patience of a saint, Lance Musician, Lance is a moron, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 01:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13112778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluphacelia/pseuds/bluphacelia
Summary: "You've reached the Tech Team. Hunk speaking. How may I serve you today?" the familiar voice booms through the cybernetic waves."Hunk! You will never believe—" Lance wails into the receiver."Listen to this—," and he starts to read. "'I have never seen or heard anything quite so obnoxiously bad in all my years documenting this industry. This is the first night I've had the displeasure of hearing something quite this wretched. My heart mourns for all the poor people who paid good money for this—'""I had food poisoning! I was about to literally die!"---Also known as, Lance has the worst day of his life—food poisoning on the big battle of the bands competition! After a grueling performance, he wakes up the next morning to a scathing online review. His reputation is in tatters, and worse, the review called his music derivative.Not one to leave well enough alone, Lance challenges the reporter to come see him perform for real... but when he meets Mr. K. Kogane in person, he begins to wonder if he's bitten off more than he can chew.---Written for the Dec 2017 klance BB





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this fic has been a real journey, started in August and finished beginning of December. I have a ton of people to thank for listening to me gripe about this for hours on end: [sleapy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sleapyGazelle) for so patiently reading through all my drafts, [alex](https://in-a-garden-astonished.tumblr.com/) who's listened to me yell incessantly about plot. Also thank you to [CLD](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CLDJendis66/), [ari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesitstyles), [Vikki](http://callmeconquistador.tumblr.com/) who patiently listens to me yell about writing every day and of course everyone on discord. I love you guys!
> 
> Thank you to the [mods](https://klbb2ds.tumblr.com/)! You are amazing! I also received a [playlist](http://moonlitwaterwriting.tumblr.com/post/168891114431/deceptive-cadence-by-bluphacelia-the-playlist) for this fic! I loved it so much, and it works so well since the whole fic is to do with music.
> 
> Now for the art. I had the pleasure of working with [FellFromtheSky](https://ifellfromtheskies.tumblr.com/) for art. I'm just completely blown away by their art! 
> 
> The art is for chapter 2 and you can check it out [here](https://ifellfromtheskies.tumblr.com/post/168973738746/dont-stop-me-now-my-piece-to-accompany)!!

Lance leans his head against the smooth wall of the bathroom stall, legs splayed across the gray tile floor. His stomach lurches with another wave of burning nausea and he gags, fighting the reflex as best he can. His eyes find solace in the small cracks in the cement, carting through them as he ignores the symptoms. Ignores them. Ignores them—

Heavy footsteps in the bathroom proper halt right in front of his stall and he can see dark tennis shoes peek under the divide. He perks up for a half second, eyes blurry as he swallows acrid spit. The door bangs against its hinges and the resounding knock echos in the tight space.

"You okay in there?" Hunk's concerned voice filters through the plywood.

"Peachy!" Lance croaks, eyes rolling back to the ground. He would have hugged his porcelain goddess if not for the fact he was currently in the crummy bathroom adjacent to the backroom of the Garrison Music Hall. Even if it was better off than the public bathroom, it wasn't going to win any hygiene of the year awards.

"I think we should cancel. We should definitely cancel," Hunk is saying on the other side of the door. The words are enough to snap Lance back into the present. He hauls his ass off the floor, legs cramping from the awkward position. He trips toward the door, landing awkwardly against the wall.

"No!" Lance yanks the door open and nearly falls, only to be steadied by his startled friend. 

"Buddy, there's always next year. And they have those monthly jam sessions," Hunk reasons as Lance tries to pull himself together. He leans heavily against the sink before turning on the faucet to splash some water on his face.

"This is it," Lance groans. "This is the break we need! There will be a lot of press and people from the industry. We have to go on! This is what we've been working toward for the last—" He takes a breath, fighting past the taste acrid bile and heightening nausea. Swallows."—We've worked so hard for this." 

"Lance. You can barely stand." Hunk pulls out the older brother voice as he steadies Lance again, large hands firm on his shoulders. “Our time slot is in fifteen minutes. We have to cancel."

"Just," Lance feels another swirl in his gut, and balks. "Give me five minutes." He dives back into the bathroom stall, door clattering behind him. 

A good ten minutes later, Lance stands at the edge of the stage. The lights flicker and bounce across the way. Up and down. Up and down. He swallows, the prickling taste of bile prominent on his tongue even after the mouthwash.

"I got this. I got this. I got this," he chants under his breath as the other band finishes their song and it's finally their turn. Hunk clasps his shoulder, eyes reflecting the constant worry he feels— That small bout of anxiety under his normally calm exterior.

"We can still back out with grace," Hunk whispers as the other band bows and exits stage right.

"No, no. We got this," Lance mumbles. The announcer takes center stage.

There's a general cheer from the crowd, and the announcer holds out her hand asking for calm laughing into the mic at the ear shattering screams. The turnout is better than last year. The crowd reaches from the pit all the way to the doors. Lance feels his palms sweat. The crowd swims, blending together into one moshpit of faces and he has to look away for a second.

A tap to the mic and, "Up next! Swimming with the Sharks!" 

Everything keys down to those words. The world turns blurry. Lance feels his heart race and his ears start to ring. The roar of the crowd becomes distant until all he can hear is a high-pitched whine. The others are already filtering on stage. Hunk gives him a worried look as he steps out, hand rising in a greeting as he swings his bass-guitar across his chest, ready to be hooked into the amp.

Lance licks his lips. His eyes water and he takes a deep breath—which he instantly regrets as the stench of stale sweat and beer seeps into his senses—before he takes the final step on stage. The crowd is a slow, dim blur in the distance, phasing out: there and not there. In focus and out of focus, simultaneously.

He takes a running step, then a huge leap, letting the adrenaline take away the burning edge of nausea still palpable as he yells into the center mic, "We're Swimming with Sharks!"

Then the crowd is there, surging forward, arms in the air. The ringing in his ears is louder and he mouths words he knows by heart. His vision swims. And he closes his eyes for a second.

He sings.

* * *

"Guhhhahhhhhhhh." Lance groans and lifts his head off the fifth of a pillow it’s been resting on. The sun streams through open blinds, piercing, straight in his eyes. He turns onto his back, muscles limp and unresponsive even as he slings a hand over his face.

There is a dull throbbing right at his temple, but the burning rumbling of his stomach has died down. He stays there for a moment—maybe five—before dragging his fingers through his hair, giving it a slight tug to wake himself. It does little other than accent the sharp pain at his temple.

He takes a breath, arm moving up, up, over his forehead and out of his eyes. He squints at the off white wall, mostly covered with posters he's pilfered from various venues over the years. It takes a moment more, but he manages to sit up. He rubs his eyes and licks his lips. The world rights itself after a moment. He takes a breath and feels his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, lips gummy and gross, his throat parched.

There's a bucket next to his bed, thankfully empty, and a glass of water on his nightstand. He takes the glass gratefully and grabs the note which has been carefully tucked underneath.

> Drink this. Got you some gatorade in the fridge. Call me if you need anything!
> 
> xxx Hunk  
> 

The water fizzes a little as he takes a sip. The mixture makes him gag, the citrus offending his delicate system. It's one of those fizzy electrolyte things that Hunk loves to make him drink after a night of partying. He can tell just from a sip. Lance scrunches his nose and downs it in one go, grimacing a little as it hits his sore stomach. He waits, leaning against the wall, but the liquid settles comfortably, and nothing seems to want to come back up.

The glass goes back where it came from with a dull thud, and he fumbles for his phone on his nightstand. Hunk had plugged it in and everything, that literal beautiful angel of a human being. Lance swipes to messenger and sends him a quick: "Still alive.”

His email inbox is quiet enough. No emergency calls to work. He rolls around, burrowing into his covers, and opens twitter. Then opens a quick search for the Battle of the Bands from last night.

> Battle of the Bands! Top 3. . .
> 
> BotB Garrison: Shining new stars. . .

He scrolls through the search results. Nothing too interesting until. . .

> BotB: Garrison. Swimming w/the Sharks fall apart on stage.

Lance thumbs through the thread, skimming through the comments before scrolling all the way back to the top. He purses his lips, eyebrows furrowed and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to reel it in.

> K. Kogane **@kkogane**  
>  BotB: Garrison. Swimming w/the Sharks fall apart on stage. A complete disaster on and off the stage as lead singer  
>  Read more . . .  
> 

He sends the tweet quickly to Hunk with a few angry expletives near the end.

Lance waits. He falls into the pit that is Tumblr for a hot minute before closing the app. And waits. He goes through reddit, instagram—liking the few images from last night. He finds cat videos that take up a good ten minutes of his time. His fingers twitch. He goes back to Twitter. Flips back to messenger.

Still no answer.

Lance frowns, pulls up his calendar and checks where he has Hunk's shifts marked out. A-ha! Of course Hunk would have a ten o'clock shift the day after a gig. Because why not, right?

He dials.

"You've reached the Tech Team. Hunk speaking. How may I serve you today?" the familiar voice booms through the cybernetic waves.

"Hunk! You will never believe—" Lance wails into the receiver.

"No, Lance!" Hunks voice dips down as he clearly moves away, hand cupping the receiver, "I'm at work! You can't stop to call me every time—"

"No, you listen! This is honest-to-God important! Some asshole went and wrote a full article about how. How," Lance stutters to a halt, eyes skimming through the text that he hasn't actually read yet.

"Listen to this—," and he starts to read. "'I have never seen or heard anything quite so obnoxiously bad in all my years documenting this industry. This is the first night I've had the displeasure of hearing something quite this wretched. My heart mourns for all the poor people who paid good money for this—'"

Lance stops, breathing ragged. He stops to gulp for breath. There are tears in his eyes and the anger won't abade. 

"I had food poisoning! I was about to literally die!" Lance yells into the receiver.

"I—," Hunk tries to break through the tirade, but fails as Lance lets out a screech, a new line already on his lips.

"—There are indie bands who sound flat. Bands that are on the bad side of nasally. And then there are the lumps of coal at the bottom of the barrel, who sound like drunken apes throwing feces around on stage."

"Just—calm—," Hunk tries, but gets cut off almost immediately by someone on his end. "—No sir, I'm taking a customer call." His voice comes through muffled. Then back into the receiver, "Yes, sir. I'll be right with you! Have you tried turning it off and on again?"

A few seconds tick by, as Lance tries to calm his erratic breathing.

"Now, turn off Twitter and go rest! I'm not losing this job because of your temper tantrum!" Hunk continues in a whisper. Lance can almost see him eyeing the surroundings for his boss.

"I am not—!" Lance begins, but the line goes dead. He stares at the phone, aghast. How dare he!! Lance throws the phone across his bed. It thuds against the mattress and he gives it a good long glare.

"How dare he, my ass," Lance grumbles after a good thirty seconds and scoops his phone back. "I'll show you, Mr. K. Kogane. I'll show you who the feces-throwing monkey is," he mutters under his breath as he pulls up twitter once again.

Seething, he scrolls to the correct profile and starts to type:

> Lance and the Sharks **@sharkboi**  
>  I've never read anything quite as low strung as @kkogane 's attempt at writing literature. He cant write 3 words strung together  
> 

Lance throws his phone back onto the nightstand and curls under the covers.

Just as he gets settled, his stomach gives an unhappy growl, but he ignores it, burying into his pillow and pulling the covers back over his head. He's asleep in seconds.

A sudden and unexpectedly loud scream envelops the small apartment. Lance jolts awake, hair tousled as the covers pool around his waist. He looks around the room, but the sound is gone. 

The sun has shifted, the yellow glow a dull orange, filtering through the open living room door.

He climbs out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom and then the kitchen, stomach demanding something more than water laced with bubbly citrus garbage. He peeks into the fridge and sees a wrapped sandwich displayed on a plate in the center. Literal tears spring to his eyes as he sends a silent thank you to his beautiful friend and tears into the bread.

The food makes him feel newly revitalized, and goes to grab his phone from the bedroom. He frowns, cocking his head to the side as he swipes it open. He blinks as he is assaulted by a harrowing amount of messages filtering through the screen.

> **@sharkboi** isn't one to be drunk on stage! It must have been a fluke! #savelance
> 
> There is no way **@swimmingwsharks** would be anythin but wonderful!!! #savesws
> 
> . . .
> 
> **@sharkboi** we love you! Don't get discouraged #savelance  
> 

Lance frowns at the comments, scrolling through. There are so many and he feels a soft pang in his heart at the fans, eyes landing on the various hashtags. He flips back to the reporter—asshole—and the tweet he'd left that morning, seeing the notification count rise by the second.

 _This is what you get for messing with Lance!_ But he could be magnanimous. Even to his enemies. A new message sits at the top of the reporter's tweets.

> Call off your groupies _@sharkboi_ and I might give you another chance.  
> 

Lance bristles, but then takes a deep breath. He can work with this. He has more talent in his pinkie toe than this know-it-all loser reporter who probably doesn't even have that many followers—no, okay, fine, he's popular enough. That doesn't mean anything!

Assholes will always be loved by other assholes, after all.

> Lance and the Sharks **@sharkboi**  
>  Woooow, guys! Let's give **@kkogane** another chance to show his worth. **@alteabar** on the 12th, 9PM, be there or forever feel my wrath.  
> 


	2. Exposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got lovely art for this chapter by FellFromTheSky. You can check it out [here](https://ifellfromtheskies.tumblr.com/post/168973738746/dont-stop-me-now-my-piece-to-accompany)!
> 
> Thank you so much for this piece, it's so lovely!

> Lance@Altea **@sharkboi**  
>  **@kkogane** , I hope to see you eat your words this friday **@alteabar**!! 
> 
> K. Kogane **@kkogane**  
>  I'll take you up on that. Let's see who eats what, **@sharkboi**  
> 

Friday night can't come soon enough. Lance is nearly vibrating through his entire shift at the Surf and Turf, eyes straying to the old-school analogue clock over the door as he leans against the cash. At six o'clock on the dot, he sprints back to his car.

The beat up Corolla takes its sweet time to start—like it always does—so he takes the opportunity to text Hunk.

**Can't wait for tonight! We're gonna make him weep.**

He puts the car in gear and peers over his shoulder as he backs up. The drive back to his apartment might or might not take five minutes less than usual. He sprints up and down the stairs. The amp and guitar go into the back seat along with his backpack, and he's at the bar at quarter to seven.

"Need help?" calls out a familiar deep voice, and Hunk appears through the back door, grabbing the amp just as Lance manages to butt the car door shut with the heel of his boot. 

"Dressed to impress?" Hunk takes the lead as they make their way inside.

Lance ignores the not-so-subtle jab. "I hope you brought some food. I'm starving!" he proclaims instead as they meander past the tables to leave their equipment at the small stage at the back of the lounge. It's a slow crowd so far, the lights still turned on high instead of the normal smoky lounge atmosphere. Lance drops the guitar and turns, eyes scanning the room. There is nothing remarkable yet—it's too early for that—just a few familiar faces at the bar.

They make their way to the back where Sal is busy doing inventory. He nods at them as they pass, going into the small room they’ve been allotted.

"I hope you're feeling better!" a crystalline voice shimmers through the space and Lance preens, cocking his head to the side.

"I'm all back to my glorious self. Thank you, Allura," he says as the owner of the bar stands up, a box of new glasses perched up on one arm.

"Here," Hunk thrusts a tupperware container toward Lance.

"You beautiful human being! I could kiss you!" Lance flips the top open and nearly weeps at the sight of Hunk's homemade meatloaf sandwiches.

"Please don't," Hunk groans, and grabs another one for himself from the cooler. "At least I can vouch for these."

They eat in silence, Lance tapping his foot to the ground as he devoured his sandwich, his other hand flipping through his social media messages. If the RSVPs to the showdown between the journalist and the band are anything to go by, it will be a packed house tonight.

"Where are the others?" Hunk asks as he packs away the empty containers and pulls out a bottle of water.

"Coming soon. We don't start until nine anyway," Lance replies, distracted, but he can still feel the eye-roll as Hunk gets up to help Allura with setup.

They've done this show dozens of times before, so the venue is a comfortable assortment of familiarity and new faces in the crowd. The Altea Lounge is just like it sounds, a lounge bar with small tables and a classy atmosphere. There is conversation and the tinkling of glasses as the usual smooth voice of the previous act stirs their attention. 

It's Nyma again. Lance really wishes Allura would stop inviting her on, but she did bring out the crowds all on her own. He ignores her as best he can slipping up to the bar. 

"What can I get you?" Sal asks, wiping away the watery residue of whatever his previous order was.

"Just whatever's on tap.”

"This is your free one for the night, then." Sal places the beer on a coaster in front of him.

"Thanks, bud." Lance gives him a nod and sits back, watching the crowd watch Nyma.

"You here for the band?" someone asks beside him and Lance glances around, eyes instantly darting to the dark red leather coat and tight black jeans that hug his calves just so. The man stands out like a sore thumb in between the dresses and dinner jackets. Lance is instantly drawn to him.

"I am the band, sweetheart," Lance says, leaning against the bar, near empty glass of beer clicking on the counter. "I'm Lance. What's your name?"

Just as the man turns to speak, Hunk grabs a hold of Lance's shoulder. There are words spoken from both sides so he misses the full introduction to the din of the bar. Lance shrugs Hunk off, waving him away. Hunk rolls his eyes but leaves to go set up. 

The sleeves of Hunk's button down shirt are rolled up to the elbows again and his vest is undone. Lance feels an itch to fix it, but then turns to the other itch he needs to scratch. "Sorry about that but, duty calls. Key was it?" He gives the man a wicked grin,"I'll see you after the show. . ."

Lance darts past the patrons catching up to Hunk who somehow parts the crowd like magic. They reach the back, with the raised platform, but before Hunk has a chance to move up, Lance pulls him down and fixes his attire.

"Really, I've told you so many times," Lance mutters as he starts with the buttons of the egg-shell white vest. Hunk bats his hands away and finishes doing the buttons himself. 

"You can flirt after the show, but for now let's try to do a little better than last time, yeah?" the drummer mutters and Lance rolls his eyes and goes to grab his own guitar.

"It was a fluke! I was dying! Let's just go and rock their socks off!" he says, hoisting the guitar strap over his head. "We got this. Our reputation's at stake!"

Nyma winds down, her soft voice echoing off the walls and with a final note the crowd bursts into life. She takes the applause with a smile and slight tilt of her head before sauntering down the single step.

Nyma leans in towards Lance. "Beat that applause, lover boy," she croons and slides a hand across his bicep. Lance swallows. Nope, he isn't falling for that again.

He breaks free and takes the final steps up to the stage. His eyes search the crowd, it's a fifty/fifty mix tonight of new and old faces. His eyes slip up to the bar and then off to the right and then he finds Mr. Leather Jacket in the crowd.

There is expectant silence, and for once he's glad this isn't a rock concert and he isn't the headliner as takes a breath eyes sliding back to the neutral middle.

"We are Lance and the sharks!" Lance hears a muffled groan from somewhere behind, but ignores it. The lights dim a fraction and he smiles the first few words on the song already on his lips.

Sweat pours down his neck from the harsh lights above. They've been dimmed now as the last song of their set dies down and he throws his hand up then out as he gives an elegant bow for his audience. There's a fucking standing ovation and he is hard pressed not to go on for another song, but Hunk is standing at his elbow and with a final kiss to the crowd Lance steps away.

"How do you like them apples," he mouths across the small darkened alcove, at Nyma who is standing there with her arms crossed, heeled foot tapping and face this side of furious.

"Was that last bit totally necessary?" Hunk asks as he sets his base back into its case. He wipes sweat off his brow and turns to Lance who is mirroring his movements as he stores away his own guitar.

"I live to serve," Lance laughs and then coughs, throat parched. He downs the water bottle Hunk hands his way, gargling obscenely before swallowing catching a few glares sent his way with a thumbs up and smile over the lip of the bottle.

"You're disgusting," Hunk says and Lance just gives him another thumbs up before downing the rest. They make their way to the back, the noise level dropping immediately as the door shuts behind them.

"Can we store the equipment here until tomorrow morning?" Hunk turns to Allura, who is sitting at the tiny desk in the corner of the room.

"Yes of course! As always. Just put them in the storage room and I can have Sal or Coran open up the door for you in the morning." She smiles, pushing a lock of escaped hair behind her ear.

"You're a true princess," Lance croons, but gets elbowed in return and he goes to help bring the rest of their things inside.

The explosive chatter has died down a little, as a pianist playing is playing a medley of some sort and the people have started to mingle, a few taking steps on the small dance floor.

"Do you think that reporter douche appeared tonight?" Lance asks as they place the last of their things in the corner of the large room. He huffs and sits down on the amp he'd been carrying.

"Get off that," Hunk shoos him and Lance gives a pained groan before sitting on the floor.

"Everything good here?" A new voice comes through the door. Lance gives a tired wave at Coran.

"Yeah, should be. That was the last of the equipment right guys?" Hunk turns to the rest of the band who nods, wiping off sweat and downing complimentary waters.

Hunk gets a nod and a shrug in return.

"I'm gonna go see what the feeling is at the bar," Lance pops his collar and gives him a wink.

"Do you need someone to drive you home later?" 

"I think I'll manage." Lance waves with his back turned as he exits.

The bar is filled just as it was before, the two barkeeps keeping themselves busy and even Allura is back there now whipping out her specials as a group of women try to catch her attention. 

It doesn't take much effort to spot the man with the leather jacket. He's sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a very colorful array of—something in a glass. Lance bites his lip, glancing around for any other familiar faces he makes up his mind.

"Hey, there," Lance says and taps the bar to get Sal's attention. 

He leans forward. "Another for me and whatever he's having," Lance nods at dark-eyes-and-handsome.

"No, no," the man starts and Lance shakes his head. 

"It's on me," he smiles, teeth flashing as he does. He's not going to take a no for an answer, not when he's feeling this lucky. Not after the kick-ass show they'd managed to get through.

It takes three drinks for him to get the man's name again.

"Key? Really?" Lance laughs into the fancy umbrella drink he was served when he asked for _give me something tasty_. Sal hadn't lied. It _was_ tasty.

"No, well," the man starts, but Lance silences him with a finger to his lips.

"No, no. I totally understand. We all have our names and our other _names_. Do you really think my mother named me Lance? Lance Armstrong? Am I right?" He poses, flexing his arm the laughter spilling out at his own joke.

Key grins, the wicked twist of his lips doing wonderful things to Lance's ego. 

It gets fuzzy after the fifth drink and before he knows it he's in an Uber, lap full of very enthusiastic fanboy. He gives the aggravated looking driver his address and the twenty minute drive feels like seconds.

They stumble out, laughing as they make their way upstairs. There is a moment outside his front door, when Lance is pulling out his keys, breathlessly making a joke about "Getting his keys out for Key," when he gets pushed against the wall. Lance feels his breath leave his lungs. There are lips on his, tongue licking, teeth biting. A knee slips between his thighs and he has to bite the whimper trying to escape. He fails miserably as the high pitched sound causes a chuckle he can feel against his chest and the keys slip out from his numb fingers landing on the ground in a clatter.

Knees buckling, fingers slipping into dark hair, they stop to breath the same air.

"You okay?" the voice is hoarse, whispered into his ear and Lance feels the shiver all the way to his toes.

"Yeah. I'm good. You?" he asks in return and gets a chuckle in response. They detach and Lance picks up the fallen keys, fumbling twice before he gets the door open.

They get inside and Lance flips on the lights in the small entryway. Shoes are haphazardly strewn across the floor and he tries to remember if he'd put his clean clothes in the closet or not. He slips off his coat, hangs it on a hook, and goes for his shoes. He hears a heavy thud as a boot fall to the ground, and then another, while Lance still fights with his laces.

"Nice place," Key comments as Lance begins on his other shoe.

"It's alright." The dress shoe tugs off joining its brother on the floor. There are fingers in his hair and he looks up, dark eyes swimming in the pale yellow light.

"God, you're gorgeous," it slips out past the other man's lips. An accident, clearly as Lance straightens and catches his eye. There is a moment of licked lips and wandering eyes and quiet.

It doesn't take much for him to pull Key to his bedroom, ignoring the cat who slips against his leg in the dim light.

They stumble in, Lance kicking the door closed leaving them in semi-darkness.

"I can't believe," Key mumbles as they crash together, This time it's Lance pushing Key against the wall, this is good. So good. Close to what he wants but they are still too far away from the bed in his opinion.

"Believe it, babe," Lance mutters against a collarbone. He nips down and then licks hoping to have left a mark. He does it again, just to make sure. He is almost positive he's seen Key at another venue before. Not at the Lounge, he would have remembered, but maybe one of the university bars or a jam session at the music hall. He moves up, lips catching lips as he delves in. It's his turn to grind down and he smirks against Key's lips only to pull off long enough to gaze at the startled look on the other man's face. Fuck, he is good. He turns his attention to that pale jaw, down the curving arch of neck thriving on the gasps and sharp inhales it brings in its wake.

He slides his hands beneath the black t-shirt—the red leather jacket already discarded somewhere in the flat. The shirt rises as his hands slide higher.

"Lance," comes a muffled groan and he pulls away, hands still drawing circles on Key's ribs.

"Too much?" he asks and bites his lip. Key looks at him, pupils blown, dark hair fallen out of the tight ponytail. It framed his pale cheeks, now flushed a rosy pink, from drink or arousal. Lance nudges his knee up. Yeah. Definitely arousal. 

"I can't—stand," comes the answer and Lance can't help the chuckle.

"You can do it," Lance croons into his neck and with a wicked grin he slides down to his knees, hands trailing across hot flesh and down to his belt buckle. "Why hello there," Lance says to the clear tenting of those tight, tight jeans. 

"Fuck," comes from above and Lance looks up. Their eyes meet, Key's half hooded and Lance feels his eyes draw to his lips as the other man licks them. His breath is shallow and Lance has a sudden urge to kiss him again.

"What is it you want?" Lance teases the skin just below Key's navel. "I'll do whatever you want."

Key stutters, but Lance pushes him back against the wall with a steady hand to the hip.

"Touch me," manages to come through as half a groan. A hand laces through his hair and Lance pulls at the belt. It comes undone easily enough. He pulls it through the loops and it falls to the ground with a satisfying clatter.

Lance looks up as he pops the first button. Key is biting his lip and there is a sudden tug at his hair that makes Lance gasp. "I thought you were going to touch me." The words are too fucking steady, making Lance growl and pull at the three remaining buttons before janking the stupid jeans down. They catch the pert curve of Keys' ass and with a hiss the trapped erection is free.

"No underwear?" Lance sighs. "Thought you'd get lucky tonight?" He looks back up, cheek rubbing against the soft velvety skin.

"You never—know." The words have a clear stutter to them now to Lance's delight.

"With that ass you'll definitely get lucky." Lance mutters and without further ado he takes Key into his mouth.

"Gah!" There's a grunt and the hands are in his hair, gripping tight, almost painful as they tug at the short strands. He swallows and licks, just playing with the head as he bobs his head. His tongue swirls around the head, tasting the salt and eliciting another beautiful moan. Heat coils in his stomach and he can feel himself strain against the black slacks. He shifts, knees going wider as he brings his free hand to palm against himself as he takes Key's cock in deeper.

His lips strain and he feels the flat head hit the back of his throat. 

"Fuck'n." The hands are back, pulling at him, urging him closer and he feels his nonexistent gag reflex make his eyes water. His fingers slip down his slacks and he let's Key set the pace, hands cupping the sides of his face, fingers tugging at his hair. Lance feels his eyes close as a new volley of sensations push him closer.

Key stutters and then pulls out come exploding across Lance's lips, cheek, dripping down his jaw. He falls down onto his knees and Lance tugs once more, head falling onto Key's shoulder as he comes over his own hand. Fucking hell. He'd have to take the slacks to a dry cleaner with weird ass stains—again.

"That was," Key mumbles, hand petting at Lance's sweaty locks. He can't seem to stop and Lance giggles.

"Something else, yeah."

Lance wipes away the come with a sleeve and leans back, trying to catch his breath. He looks down at his hand, sticky and gross and makes a face. Key is leaning against the wall, eyes closed, a high flush on his cheeks, breath deceptively even.

"You falling asleep on me?" Lance nudges his knee against Key's leg.

"Hrmph?" Comes the response and Lance laughs as he goes to his drawer, pulling out a clean pair of briefs.

"Put these on," he nudges Key's leg again and the other man's eyes flutter open, uncomprehending. "Take them." He does and blinks his eyes.

"I'm gonna clean up. You're welcome to stay the night." Lance takes the second pair of underwear and trudges to the bathroom to clean up. 

Five minutes later and fairly less sticky, Lance slides back into his room. There are discarded clothes on the floor, those black jeans and a loose sock. He crawls into bed, nudging the sleeping figure closer to the wall and passes out, arm draped across the breathing lump next to him.

* * *

Lance blinks, feels a tickle of hair under his nose. Sunlight streams through the single window and he can't quite remember how he'd gotten home, but that doesn't matter. He'd gotten home and clearly managed to convince someone to come home with him. He brings up a hand, smoothing the hair down a bit. He reaches for his phone. Fumbles at nothing. There's a grown and the man next to him shifts, curling up closer. 

Lance turns a bit, sits up enough to see his slacks on the ground. He leans, fingertips brushing against the fabric, and he just manages to get a grip, pulling them closer. He pulls out his phone.

Twitter is mostly silent. Nothing from Mr. K. Kogane at least. The asshole. 

There is however a message from Hunk.

**Did you see this?**

Underneath there is a link. Lance clicks it open. It's an article. Written by, who else, but Mr. K. Kogane himself. Underneath the title there is a tiny picture. Dark hair, dark eyes stare back at him from the black and white photo. Very familiar dark eyes.

Fuck, is all he has time to think as those very same eyes blink blearily at him from his bed.


	3. Development

Lance blinks. He blinks and sits up, the events of last night crashing into the forefront.

"You okay?" Mr. K. Kogane asks. He sits up and, okay. He's still hot.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," Lance tries. "It's still early. I'm just gonna run to the bathroom."

It's a lie. It's not early. But he does race out, phone clutched in his hand. He closes the bathroom door and slides down onto the floor. 

He opens the article again, reading down. It's some classical bullshit and he scrolls back to the top. The picture is still there.

**Why'd you send me this?** Lance types out, not really expecting a reply.

**Because I saw him there last night. Thought you'd want a heads up to what your nemesis looked like.**

**He isn't my nemesis! Rival. No. What's the word.**

**I saw you leaving with him dude. Thought you might want a heads up but. You're not having a meltdown rn are you?**

**What? Me? Moi? A Meltdown? What is this?**

**I know you dude. I thought I'd catch you before last night but. Is he still there? Don't do anything stupid, please.**

Lance was definitely not going to reply to that. Do stupid things? He never did stupid things. Minus that one time he'd driven through a fence on a dare. He'd been so certain his car would stop in time!

He gets up. Walks to the sink. The water runs for a moment before he splashes his eyes, wiping the nightly grit away. After a quick brush of his teeth and comb of his hair he has a plan to get back at this douche—Key or whatever his real name was—Mr. K. Kogane. 

Lance stops for a second, mind reeling. Why had the guy come home with him in the first place? He knew who Lance was for sure. And he knew Lance didn't know who he was. Not really. But he didn't know that Lance knew that he knows that he knew.

He plasters a grin on his face as he leaves the bathroom. He makes it halfway to his room when there's a crash and a curse.

"You okay there?" Lance asks, eyes falling on Key, who's sitting on the ground, legs tangled up in his jeans. There is a magazine under his foot, the clear culprit of his fall and he winces as he looks up at Lance, the guilty half frown morphing into a neutral expression.

"Fantastic, thank you," Key replies, shimmying his jeans over his ass.

"If your ass didn't hurt before, I bet it hurts now," Lance grins and watches the flush spread up from beneath the other man's shirt.

"Are you always this much of an ass or what?" Key asks giving him an eye.

"Of course not, sweetcheeks. Just to the pretty ones who try to dine and dash." Lance leans against the doorframe as he watches Key shimmy into his jeans. They really are sinfully tight.

"You're insufferable."

The dark glance makes Lance's smile widen even more. "You sure didn't think so last night, did you?"

"Why did I drink so much?" Key groans, eyes closing as he thumbs at his t-shirt, fingers running through the material.

"Aww, baby. You didn't have a good time? At least let me make you breakfast."

Key seems to perk up at the thought of, food, but then turns slightly green and Lance quickly gives room and points out the bathroom.

He goes into the kitchen, runs a glass of cold water and walks with it toward the bathroom where Key disappeared.

"You okay in there?" he asks, the tinge of worry in his voice more real than he'd like to admit. The boy was cute, he couldn't help but think as he hears a groan come through the door. "Can I come in?"

"Do what you want," comes the reply.

Lance pushes the door open to find Key leaning against the spotless porcelain.

"I brought you some water. I think I also have some gatorade in the fridge if you'd prefer."

"'m sorry," Key groans.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Lance replies and sits down next to Key, placing the glass of water on the ground. "Feeling better?"

Keith grunts, but slides up, grabbing the glass of water and goes to rinse his mouth in the sink. "Do you mind calling me an uber?" 

"Only if you'll let me use your phone—so I can add my number," Lance grins.

"In my jacket," Key replies and slides back down.

"Roger!" Lance stands up and goes to find said jacket. He glances around and spots the red leather jacket on the floor of the hallway. He takes it and puts it on the hook next to his own. He pulls out the phone from the breast pocket and tabs it open. It's locked. Figures.

"Found it!" Lance calls out and takes it to the owner and hands it over. Key touches the button for a moment and the screen lights up.

Lance thumbs in his number, adding it into favorites just because he can. He also calls his phone just so he'll also have Key's. There is no way he'll let him live this down. Ever.

"Here you go," Lance hands the phone back. "Ordered an uber for you. Says it'll be here in ten minutes! You feel well enough to get up?"

With Lance tagging along behind him, Key manages to make it to the front door in one piece. Lance helps him into his coat and pushes a bag with the gatorade into his hands—just in case. 

"Just message me whenever," Lance smiles as Key pulls on his boots.

The other man straightens and pulls at his lapels before meeting his eyes. "We'll see," he quirks a smile. "If I'm in the mood for some more bad music."

"Don't lie to yourself baby, you loved my set," Lance croons and leans forward, boxing the other man in. There is a quirk to his nose and a startled gasp as Lance places a chaste kiss on his lips.

"Gross," Key complains and pushes at his chest, but there is no real force behind it. His phone dings and Lance pulls away.

"Your uber is here," he says.

"Yeah," Key replies, but doesn't make a move to leave.

"You'd better go before they give you a bad review." Lance chuckles.

Key rolls his eyes—Lance really needs to find out his real name—and pulls at the door. He pauses and the draft makes Lance's bare toes tingle with cold. "Thanks. . .for this." Key gestures at the bag.

"Anytime. Gotta take care of my fans after all." Lance winks and has to pull back his smile as Key's face scrunches up in distaste.

"Dream on," Key says as goodbye and with a flick of his hair he's gone, leaving Lance to stand in his cold hallway.

The door closes with an audible click and Lance stands there for a moment, gathering himself. His heart hammers in his chest. This can't be real. He stretches his fingers and turns on his heel. This was no time to fret! It was time to plan!

He pulls out his phone and hits the first name on speed dial. There's a click as someone picks up, "Why didn't you stop me!" Lance yells into the receiver before there is even a chance for a "Hello.".

"Oh," there is a sharp inhale. "Hunk! It's Lance!" comes muffled through the receiver as someone—Shay?—calls for Hunk.

Lance waits. 

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you stop me last night? And stop leaving your phone lying around!" Lance repeats as he stalks back toward his bedroom. There’s an insistent mrow by his feet and he detours toward the kitchen instead.

"I did try, but you were way gone by the time I got to you," Hunk's tired voice comes through the line.

"How dare you!" Lance slams the can of catfood onto the counter for emphasis. "Anyway, the damage is done. I made my bed, yada yada, but now I gotta figure out what to do about it. What do you think his game is? He knows who I am. Why would he ever agree to come home with me unless. . ." Lance gasps putting the phone on speaker and placing it on the counter. "Unless this is part of some cunning plan!"

"The only cunning plan here is you keeping away from him from now on. Just forget about that guy." Lance can hear Hunk sitting down, the look of morose do-goodness on his face as he tries to tell Lance something that he knows isn't going to work.

"You know I can't let this go now. Also did you see him? It's illegal to be that awful and that hot. I have to prove that we're worthy and then stomp on his ego until he comes crawling back to me begging for forgiveness."

"You sure he wasn't begging for it last night?"

"Hunk! How dare you! But since you asked, I did get him to beg for it." Lance plops the mound of cat food into the bowl and places it on the floor.

"Oh, no, Lance. I don't want to hear this." Hunk's groan is palpable.

"Oh, no no no no, you asked for this. You should have seen him shimmy out of those jeans. Fuck, he's fine for an asshole. Maybe I'll get to revenge fuck him once," Lance sighs suddenly regretting not going further the night before—but he wasn't one to push his luck.

"I know you're angry, but just take a few days. Maybe he'll write something nice back this time? Don't go rocking the boat too much man," Hunk tries. He truly does, bless his soul.

"I got his number. I wonder if I should send it to some weird ass chat thing," Lance throws the can of cat food away and takes the phone in hand as he makes his way back to the bedroom.

"Okay, just don't pull the band down with this okay? We've worked so hard." Hunk sighs and says his goodbyes.

Lance shimmies back under the covers, back against the headboard as he pulls up the article again. He clicks on the small image of Key. He tucks his toes under the covers and skims through the biography. K. Kogane, went to some pretentious school for English. Majoring in journalism with a minor in some weird ass music thing. Ended up working as a reporter and part-time editor at the Galra Gazette. Plays the violin?—Lance scoffs at that—and the drums. Okay, that's kinda cool. And summers in Juilliard? Who the fuck goes to Juilliard?

It doesn't take much of a google search to find more about him. A few other articles, but to Lance's chagrin there is no facebook page or personal blog that he can find. Maybe he is using an alias after all. With a groan Lance chucks the phone onto the pile of clothes next to his bed and buries his face into his pillow. It smells distractingly like something earthy and sweet, but he feels his eyes droop.

* * *

His phone dings. And again. Lance lifts his head up, blinking bleary sleep out of his eyes. The sun’s already high in the sky, the haphazardly pulled blinds doing nothing to stop the rays. He doesn't feel too bad, throat a bit parched, but otherwise not a bad day after.

Lance lets his hand fall onto the floor and after a moment of fumbling he leans over. He squints, and stretches to pluck his phone off the ground. 

**New digs at the G-bar.**  
**You in?**

Lance frowns. G-bar was the local college hang-out, small stage and little money, but free beer which was always a nice bonus.

**I'm still cooling off after yesterday's gig. Worth it?**

**Oh. You'll want to see this.**

There is an image attached. Of Nyma on stage. _What the hell?_ Lance dials immediately. The call goes straight to voicemail.

"This is Pidge. Leave a message—"

**Dammit Pidge! Answer your phone!**

**Can't. Doing sound.**

Lance groans and slides back onto his pillows. He zooms into the picture of Nyma, in some short skirt and a jacket that hits the back of her thighs. A very familiar looking blue jacket. He glances at his closet, but can't see the telltale deep blue. His phone pings again and Lance flicks the screen on with his thumb.

It's another attachment, a video this time. It plays and he watches. Lance can feel his blood start to boil as the seconds tick by.

**Is this for real? Is this happening RIGHT NOW?**  
**OUR SONG MY ASS.**

He's out of bed and pulling on jeans in two seconds flat. 

The doorbell rings.

"FUck!" Lance curses as he finally gets the button done and races to the door. He wrests it open and half expects to find Key standing there with a pair of dirty briefs to rub in his face with how his luck is going this day. 

Hunk's startled gaze meets his. 

"You doing alright there buddy?" Hunk asks. He pushes past Lance and into the small flat. Snookums, the traitor, runs to Hunk who leans down to pet her head. 

"You won't believe what happened! Nyma, that bitch!" Lance seeths and steps further away to give Hunk room.

"What happened? Also, why aren't you dressed? We have to go pick up our equipment from Altea, remember. We have to go before the bar opens." Hunk makes zero moves to take off his coat.

Lance looks down at himself, just in his jeans, no shirt. "I can't. I need to go see what the fuck Nyma is saying about me. She's at the G-bar and Pidge happened to be doing sound work for them today. I don't know what her deal is but she's spreading some insane lies about me."

"Nyma? Really? Why would she do that?" Hunk calls out as Lance stalks back to his room to find a t-shirt.

"I don't know! She has it in for me after that whole fiasco last month." Lance returns, tucking his keys and wallet into his pocket.

"It couldn't have been about the time you slept with her when she was having a fight with Rolo. Or you know, the time you slept with her after they'd gotten back together?" Hunk does _not_ sound amused.

"It was a momentary lapse in judgement! And she was _begging_ for it!" Lance whines and pulls on his sneakers.

"I just—" Hunk starts and then just takes a long deep inhale and lets it go. "You're coming with me to get our equipment. Your reputation can handle the blow."

"Oh it can handle a blow alright," Lance mutters under his breath but follows after Hunk to his car.

**Pidge please. If anything happens just msg me okay?**  
**Hunk's making me DO THINGS.**

Lance crosses his arms as they sit in silence.

"So," Hunk tries after a few minutes. It's careful, calculating and Lance has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. "What did Nyma do?"

"Apparently she's been spewing some bullshit about us being together or something. She even stole my jacket from somewhere. Altea I'd guess as I was there last night." Lance scowls. "She even had the nerve of singing MY SONG and calling it hers. You know the one." Lance hums the first few lines of the chorus. "I haven't even sung it in public yet!"

"But you did write it a long time ago." Hunk turns his head to check traffic. "How does she even know about it?"

"I might have. . .sung it in a moment of weakness," Lance admits. "I'm just. I'm more angry about her stealing my work than the lies. How dare she!"

"Message her and ask her to back off?"

It's honestly not a bad idea, but Lance did delete her number off his phone in a fit of petty anger when she'd told him straight out that—. Lance blinks his eyes as he looks out the window, not wanting to relive that memory.

"Can't. Don't got her number," is all he ends up saying and Hunk doesn't push it.

They drive the rest of the way in mostly sullen silence. Loading doesn't take too long, the others being the more responsible lot for once, have already gathered their gear. Allura isn't in yet, so Lance doesn't get a chance to ask her about Nyma which does nothing for his foul mood.

**Nyma just walked out.**  
**Is it true? What she's insinuating?**

The text from Pidge comes a little before six in the evening as Lance is unloading their amps into Hunk's garage. He stops to wipe off the sweat from his brow.

**I don't know anything! I have no idea what she's saying**

He furiously types back and just as he finishes he gets a new message. New number, no name.

**I think you forgot something.**

There is a picture attachment, mirror selfie, no face, just those tight jeans slipped a bit too low on narrow hips and dark red briefs underneath.

Lance doesn't get a chance to reply as Shay stumbles in thrusting her phone into his face.

"Is it true?!" She is practically impaling him with the screen and he has to push it back.

"Is what true?" Lance asks as he manages to grab her wrist to hold her still.

"Is she really pregnant?? With your kid?" Shay cries just as Lance is able to focus on the tweet.

> Nyma Nettles **@blondvelvet**  
>  Big news! Got something in the oven with my **@sharkboi** and no I don't mean our song ;) bitly….  
> 

There's a link to the same scene Pidge had sent him earlier. Just instead of a little under a minute of _his_ song, it ends with a five minute teary confession.

The final moments before the video cuts off leave Lance in a cold sweat.


	4. Recapitulation

"We've never been this happy in our lives. I'm sure he knows what I'm talking about." She winks at the camera and her hand rests on the non-existent swell of her lower stomach. She smiles and her crystallic laughter cuts short as the video ends.

"So!?" Shay tugs her hand back and Hunk is towering over them both, expression shifting between concerned and confused. 

"I mean—" Lance takes a breath. "It's clearly a lie." He waves his hand for emphasis. "Also we never went far enough to—I mean." He can feel his face heat up and he looks away before they notice. 

He throws his arms out to distract them with a cry of woe. "It's a publicity stunt! She's lying! She's trying to get Rolo to kill me again!"

"Again?" Hunk's frown deepens and crosses his arms.

"Yes! Again!" Lance repeats, mirroring his pose.

"Well, Twitter is going absolutely craycray right now. So if you don't want this to blow up in your stupid face I'd go do some damage control." Shay quirks her eyebrow and leads the way into the small townhouse.

Lance falls into one of the barstools by the counter and starts typing furiously on his phone.

> Nyma Nettles **@blondvelvet** :  
>  What is going on? That was MY song you're singing? What are you planning? You won't get away with this!!  
> 

It doesn't take long after he hits send to see her typing.

> Nyma Nettles **@blondvelvet** :  
>  …  
>  Thanks for the publicity boost. Got myself 100 followers in the last hour. Also that song, pure gold. Thanks sweetie!  
> 

She has the gall to add a kissy face at the end. Lance starts to type, but just as soon as he gets two words in his app boots him out of instant messages. He frowns and goes to Nyma's twitter page to try again only to find himself blocked.

"That fuckin'," he growls. "She blocked me!"

"I think it's time to eat dinner." Hunk plucks the phone out of his hands before he can retaliate by blocking _her_ traitorous ass.

He sulks, for a total of two minutes watching Hunk open the slow cooker and start dishing out meat stew. The smell hits him and he sniffs the fragrant air, realizing how ravenous he is.

"Eat. You'll feel better," Hunk states as he places the bowl in front of him. "We can figure this out, but it's better to try and keep a cool head."

"I totally agree," Lance says around a mouthful of stew. Hunk places a batch of freshly baked buns on the counter in front of him. "Hunk, you literal angel. I don't know what I did to deserve you as a friend."

"I don't either!" comes from the living room and Lance catch's Hunk's eyeroll at his sister's words.

They eat together; Hunk leaning against the counter, Lance perched on his stool. Hunk rips a chunk out of his bun, dipping the piece into the stew before digging in. It's quiet for once, the clink of cutlery and chewing filtering through the air.

It lasts a full twenty seconds before Lance has had enough, but they veer the conversation to other, safer topics, Hunk's impending move for school next year. Lance trying to figure out what he wants to do—his answer is still music, but he isn't sure how that'll be possible without moving into the city and that's _way_ more expensive than he can afford.

"Feeling better?" Shay asks as Lance slumps onto the couch next to her.

"Immensely," he groans in reply before pulling out his phone again.

"Stay over for the night. I don't trust you not to go waltzing into a PR nightmare if left to your own devices," Hunk walks in handing him a bottle. "Tomorrow is Sunday and we can come up with some sort of plan together. Maybe ask Pidge to pitch in. We also have two more bills this month. The one in two weeks is at Altea again and I believe Nyma is singing that night."

Lance groans. "But she's throwing me under the bus. I want to just—"

"We all know what you want to do." Shay smirks and makes a lewd gesture. Lance makes a face.

"Fine. Fine! What's on Netflix?" Lance burrows deeper into the couch cushions.

* * *

The first week rolls by on the wings of discourse and speculation while Lance tries to keep quiet. He lets Hunk do the managing of their band's twitter account and even though he attempts to approach Nyma again he just finds bricked off walls in every direction he goes. Then there's a sweet message of "See you on Saturday @sharkboi" followed by a double heart posted again on her twitter feed—screencap courtesy of Shay which gets him up to pace furiously through his apartment.

Friday comes along with a terse but neutral article in the Galra Gazette about the performance of lounge singers at the Altea Lounge and Bar written by a certain K. Kogane. Lance nearly drops his phone onto the ground as he reads the quick word from Hunk with the "Good News" in the message title. He quickly skims the article and then with a fluttering heart goes to his text messages—which he completely forgot about—only to come to that picture again, sent nearly a week prior. 

Lance groans. It's too late now—he's gone way past the date of no reply. He'll never get to see that gorgeous bare ass again. No revenge fuck for Lance. Nope. Not gonna happen. 

He pushes his phone back to his back pocket and tries to not simply die on the service counter of the empty shop.

* * *

The following Saturday dawns an ugly gray and as the day wanes it doesn't get much better. Hunk comes by a little after three to help carry his equipment to the van and they manage to get everything inside without getting too wet. They get to the Lounge just as Sal and Coran are starting to clean up and they set to help. 

"Are people even going to show?" Lance asks as he watches the rain pour down the window pane in the storage room. 

"You don't need people to show, you need Nyma to show. We should try to get her alone before she goes on." 

Lance grumbles, but lets it go as Hunk gestures to another table they're meant to move.

* * *

Hunk's not wrong. It's not even seven and the Altea Lounge is packed of would be fallout fans, but there is no sign of Nyma. Allura just shrugs when he asks after her, getting called away almost immediately shooing Lance out of her office so she can lock up.

So, Lance sits at the bar, alone, foot tapping against the floor in agitation as he keeps on glancing down at his phone. Thirty minutes to Nyma's performance. 

Twenty. 

Fifteen. 

Ten.

She still hasn't shown. She should be warming up in the back by now, but the sharp shake of Hunk's head ensures that, no, that isn't the case.

Just as he peers at the crowd, ignoring the few flighty looks a gaggle of girls nearby are giving him, he notices a familiar shock of black hair.

Feeling his stomach drop to his knees and Lance can't quite make up his mind if he should turn tail and flee or go confront his lost chance just to prove that he isn't the wuss he is. He turns to Sal for some liquid courage, but just as he's about to catch the bartender's eye there's a sharp tug at his sleeve.

"Look who I found wandering the crowd!" It's Pidge, not one to miss a good old public meltdown, even though she's a bit early for it. Lance scowls and then notices just who she is pulling along. "It's Keith! From seminar!"

"What?" Lance furrows his eyebrows, startled as his eyes meet a smoldering gray; an angry smolder, not the sexy kind.

"Keith! We had like three classes with him first year." It's Pidge's turn to tilt her head as she let's go of Key—Keith's arm.

"Hi there, _Lance_ ," Keith says, words perfectly civil, but if looks could kill Lance would be dead and buried a week ago.

"Uh," Lance replies intelligently and glances at where he last saw Hunk for help, guidance, absolution for his soul.

The lights dim just as he's on the verge of thinking up a reasonable comeback. He turns, the crowd quiets and Nyma saunters on stage. She's wearing a royal blue dress with a deep purple trim, smooth around all her curves leaving her back bare even as the hem brushes the ground. Her blond hair is done in an extravagant bun type deal and she would be absolutely stunning if she also wasn't the reason for all of Lance's problems right now. He glances at the glowering Keith. Well, almost all of his problems.

"Excuse me, I need to see a lady about a lie," Lance mutters into the hush as the audience settles. He gives Keith a look—a look that hopefully spells out how sorry he was about the whole not-replying-to-your-hot-ass-selfie while also forgetting-we-apparently-went-to-the-same-school for who knows how long. But he gets side tracked again as Nyma opens her goddamn mouth.

"Welcome!" she has the audacity to croon into the mic as a soft jazz beat fills the air with music. "Welcome to the Altea Lounge. I have the utmost pleasure of being the first performance of the evening."

Lance feels his blood boil. How dare she pretend everything is fine and dandy! He stalks through the seats and the small groups of avid listeners, stumbling past with a few stranded apologies.

"You!" 

Nyma falters in her welcome speech and her eyes land on him. Her dark red lips tweak into a soft smile.

"Ah, my dear—" she begins.

"That song was personal!" Lance yells, finger jabbing at Nyma. The music falters and peters away leaving them in explosive silence. 

Lance puffs. He's breathing hard. Anger and frustration and frankly a whole lot of confusion is making his chest ache. A circle of space opens up around him as he stands alone, the epitome of rage. 

Nyma arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "We can talk about this after the show," she hisses through her teeth, lips still quirked up in that sweet semblance of a smile.

"No! I'm not letting you out of this that easy!" His breathing is coming out ragged and even though the lights aren't on him he can feel the eyes of the crowd sweep between them.

"Don't forget the other thing," Hunk mutters from his side and Lance starts. When had he snuck up on him?

"Oh yeah. The insinuating thing." Lance snaps his fingers. "Just tell the crowd. Right now that you were lying about it or else I won't let you continue. I know Allura better than you do, there's no way she'll take your side!"

"Oh, the audience is eating this up!" Pidge says, appearing from nowhere to stand on his other side.

A dark cloud passes through Nyma's features, but it clears in an instant as she straightens her back and smiles. "I'm happy to inform you all, that I've been recruited to perform under the Olkarion record label! They were so impressed by _our_ song that they wanted me to perform live for them."

Lance gapes at her, not believing his ears. Not only did she steal his song but this?

"It was meant to be a surprise, but alas, my partner here just couldn't keep his—hey!" Nyma yelps as Lance jumps onto the stage and yanks her arm.

"There is no way in hell, I'm letting you do this. That song is mine!" His words come out a quiet hiss and there must be something in his eyes as Nyma finally falters.

"I thought you'd be pleased. Just keep your mouth shut and you'll get your share. Maybe you'll even get to sing it on stage with me," Nyma pitches her voice low and Lance can feel the crowd surge forward trying to eavesdrop.

"I'm just sorry I ever sang that song to you. It wasn't meant for you anyway."

Lance turns and pulls the mic out, fingers still clutched around Nyma's traitorous wrist. "Sorry about that folks! Just a mild misunderstanding. Nyma here," Lance looks at Nyma," thought the song was somehow in any shape or form her property but it's not. It's mine, something I wrote ages ago—tweaked a little over time of course—but it was absolutely not for sale."

"You have no proof that it's even your song!" Nyma hisses and tries to twist her arm free.

"Yes, he does," a voice calls out from the crowd. The crowd surges and then shifts leaving a blank space with a confused Hunk and Pidge framing a murderous Keith. He's clutching something in his hand. Lance squints through the lights. It looks like a piece of notebook paper, a long piece of tape down the middle where it's been clearly ripped in half at some point in time. Frankly, the way Keith is currently clutching it isn't doing it any favors either.

Hunk gives Lance a bewildered shrug and Pidge nudges Keith with her elbow.

"Well, what is it?" Someone shouts from the crowd and the room explodes with questions.

"Who the hell is that?" Nyma snaps. Lance pauses and then with utmost clarity it all finally fits together.

"You see, Nyma. The song had nothing to do with you. I wrote it for him," Lance jerks his thumb at Keith. "In fifth grade. For a class pen-pal project."

Nyma gapes at him.

"Beat that, darling." Lance smirks. Nyma bristles. She casts a glare at Keith and then at the paper in his hands. She leans down and grabs it. The page nearly tears before Keith lets go. She holds it up, gives it a cursory glance before glaring daggers at Lance and with a resounding huff turns, stalking off stage. The remaining band looks startled and confused—as does a good portion of the audience. Unnoticed the piece of paper floats back down off stage.

"Well shit," Lance mutters under his breath and turns to the band. "Can you hold them off for like 10 minutes? We can start our set early and cover for you."

He turns back and places the mic on the stand. "Sorry about that folks. Seems like all the drama is done for the night! Give us a quick fifteen minute recess as these lovely people here will give you some beautiful sounds as we get ready."

He nods and slips off stage left with a small bow and a wave. 

Lance stumbles on the last step, catching himself on the banister and slowly lowering down to sit. Key was _Keith_? What the literal fuck.

"You doing okay?" Hunk's large hand lands on his shoulder.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Lance throws his head back, eyes strained at the dark ceiling. He jumps to his feet, startling both Hunk and Pidge, who is loitering a few feet away from them.

"I fucked up so bad," Lance groans. "Where is he?"

"Where is who? Your blond girlfriend?" The words are a low growl. Keith stands by the small alcove leading back to the main floor. He's wearing that damn red leather jacket again and a loose t-shirt with a faded band logo, along with sinfully tight jeans. His hair falls loose to his shoulders and Lance has a moment of deja-vu.

"You're Mullet," it slips out and Lance regrets it the moment it does because the nickname does him absolutely no favors. All it does is push the thunderous rage on Keith's face from tropical storm straight to hurricane levels. He glances around for someone to save him, but Hunk and Pidge have disappeared, probably sensing his ultimate demise by—fire he'd guess from the way Keith looks like he's about to erupt in flames.

"Oh, now you remember. How fucking convenient," Keith says, words dripping venom as he crosses his arms. The letter in his hand crinkles as he shifts.

"I'm sorry. I just. . .absolutely did not expect to see you. Like what are the odds?" Lance tries.

"It doesn't even matter. I just came to give you this." Keith flicks the letter at him and turns. The sheets drift to the ground and Lance launches forward to pull Keith back into the alcove. There is a muffled sound of surprise as Lance pulls him close by his waist, his other hand circling around his wrist, not wanting to risk him getting away.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize," Lance whispers and looks down at Keith who looks more startled than angry now.

"You forgot about me." Keith takes a breath. "You forgot about me three fucking times." His words stab, but there is no real pressure behind them now. It's like all the fight had left him along with the discarded pages.

"Oh, I didn't forget you Keith," Lance pulls him close and finding no resistance he hugs the shorter man. "I may be an idiot, but I didn't forget. Not really."

"Then what happened?" Keith's voice is muffled as he rests his forehead against Lance's shoulder.

"I just didn't recognize you for a minute, that's all." That elicits a weak chuckle. "And you did write a review basically calling my music the literal embodiment of fail." He quotes.

"I still think your music is the embodiment of fail," Keith growls and pokes him savagely between the ribs. Lance grunts. Keith really doesn't hold back when he gets mad. He wheezes and as revenge Lance squeezes picking him up in a half twirl around the tight space.

Keith gasps and Lance can feel an angry retort coming, but a soft cough interrupted them instead.

"We're on in two." It's Hunk and the rest of the band is trailing behind him, obviously looking at anything but the two of them. He ducks back out, giving them a moment more.

"Please don't leave." Lance pushes Keith away, fingers biting into his biceps as he looks at him. "I want to hear more about how terrible my music is."

"Can't be that terrible if Olkarion is willing to give it a go. That Nyma chick has nothing on your writing skills."

"Fucking Nyma. I almost forgot about her." 

He leans forward and Keith doesn't pull away—

"Uh-hum." Someone clears their throat. "The crowd is getting restless, dude." Hunk nudges his head toward the stage. "It's time."

"I'll. . .be right back," Lance says, pulling down and buttoning his sleeves and straightening his vest. "Please just—don't leave."

Keith gives him a half shrug and crosses his arms as answer.

"Don't leave!" Lance mouths at him as he's pulled up the stairs.

He takes the last step with a jump and by-passes the guitar the drummer is holding up to him and goes straight for the mic.

"Sorry about all the confusion, ladies and gentlemen! I promise we'll give you a fabulous show to make up for it!"

He lets the lights flicker to a new setting and he catches Pidge's eye.

"Now then, I'm certain all of you are on the edge of your seat waiting. And not just for our set, I'm sure." He motions to himself and the band behind him. "But to know what all that drama was about."

There are some open cheers from the crowd and Lance points at them with a wink. He proceeds to throw them a snapping finger gun with his free hand which elicits a chorus of chuckles.

"So, we'll start you off with a special something. I haven't really performed to an audience as spectacular as yourselves before, but I'll give you the original rendition of Space Between the Stars. 

"It was a song I wrote years ago. About dreams of stars and the unthinkable realms of possibility. Today it reads a bit like a love song to the cosmos—and goes a bit like this.—


	5. Coda

"Sorry about that. Not really a Lounge rendition," Lance calls out as the crowd finally quiets down enough that he can hear himself speak. He catches Keith's eye near the bar. There is a huge feeling of relief and he feels his shoulders fall back.

Allura catches his attention and taps her wrist twice and Lance lets out a billowing sigh.

"And that's the signal folks! It's time for the next act. I hope you enjoyed our slightly unconventional set tonight and I'll see you again shortly!" He raises his hand and grins as he unplugs his guitar and walks down the steps. He stops in the small alcove where the rest of the band huddles together.

"We'll deal with clean-up," Hunk says and grabs hold of Lance's guitar. "You go do your thing."

With that Lance is pushed out into the crowd. He skirts across the room, hugging the walls trying to get to the bar. It seems the swell of people had only increased during their set.

"Lance." Lance turns toward the sound and watches Allura push through the crowd as though she's parting the seas. 

"Evening, princess," Lance says with a smile, even as he tries to spot a certain someone at the bar.

"I don't think I've ever seen the Lounge this busy!" she gasps. "You should create a scandal every week." Her words are teasing but Lance just makes a face.

"I think I'm done with scandals for a while, princess," he replies and shakes his head. "Sorry, but I gotta jet." He points his thumb toward the bar. "Someone's waiting on me."

"Yes of course! Knock him dead." She winks and strides away with purpose.

Lance gets to the bar, fumbling a bit as he straightens up to his full height trying to see past the crowd.

"Looking for something?" a familiar voice says behind him and as he turns a pint of beer is thrust into his hands.

"What—?" is all Lance manages to say but Keith bulldozes over his words.

"Ice breaker," Keith says and saunters off and Lance can't help it as his eyes zero in on that perfect ass. As Keith slides out of view Lance gasps and rushes after him, wary as the beer sloshes dangerously in its glass.

He catches up easily enough, for once keeping his mouth shut as he follows along. Keith leads him to the back room and opens the door. Lance glances around, but no one seems to be paying them any mind.

"I don't think—" Lance begins as the door swings shut behind him, leaving most of the noise out.

"Yeah, I've realized that you don't think very often," Keith cuts him off again. He places his own drink on the counter. It looks suspiciously like a straight double shot of tequila.

"Uh—" Lance swallows and brings the pint up to his lips. He takes a sip and nearly chokes as Keith takes his small glass and downs it in one go. He gives a full body shudder before blinking his eyes with a grimace.

"The owner said it would be okay to come in here for a bit to talk. She seemed ada-adamant about it," Keith continues through his slight stutter. The glass clatters against the desk. Lance takes another drink downing half the glass before Keith finally turns around to face him.

"So." Keith leans against the desk, arms crossed and looking about as closed off as anyone could. His mouth is a thin line and his nose is turned up giving him a petulant air. He huffs and watches Lance like the puny insect that he is.

"I'm sorry?" Lance tries, but it comes out all wrong—questioning and uncertain. "I mean, for all of it. For not recognizing you as Mu—as Keith. And then for not texting you back. Granted that sort of isn't my fault because I got sidetracked by the whole Nyma thing."

"Yes, your blonde girlfriend," Keith bites back.

"She's not my girlfriend!" Lance nearly throws his arms up in the air but then remembers the pint. He drinks the rest in one go and takes a step closer just to slam it onto the desk next to the other man. 

Keith twitches, but doesn't back away, just pulls his arms closer against his chest as he slides back to sit a bit farther up on the desk. "So what is she?"

"She's just an acquaintance who coaxed me to show her some of my original stuff and turned out to be a sordid witch!" Lance is breathing hard, he'd drunk the beer way too fast and Keith is way too close. The leather jacket is gone, discarded who knows where and Lance can see the firm muscle of his biceps. He averts his gaze and swallows. 

"I honestly was just about to message you when I found out. And I am _really_ sorry about the whole forgetting you bit. But you can't blame me! You look nothing like your picture back in grade school!"

Keith shifted again, looking away, oozing an aura of scorching fury.

Lance tries his luck, shifts closer and places his hand right next to Keith's thigh. "I'm just a victim of circumstance. We both are."

There is a pause.

"But who goes to Juilliard anyway?" 

Keith looks up at that. 

"Oh, yeah. I read your bio Mr. I-play-the-violin-and-drums-like-a-pro."

"You really, really are impossible." Keith growls through his teeth. He leaps off the desk causing Lance to stumble back awkwardly. "You really don't remember anything." There's a finger jabbing him straight in the sternum. "We talked about it. Way-back-when. You'd always dreamed about going and then when we moved up into middle school you stopped writing." There is old hurt in his voice.

"Is that why you went? To see if I'd be there?" Lance feels his heart melt.

"What? No! Of course not. Don't be ridiculous." Keith pulls away, but before he can retreat Lance grabs him by the hands, keeping him close. 

"I think you did. Is that also why you went to GU? Because I mentioned it once or twice." Lance pushes, trying to catch Keith's eye, but he's vehemently avoiding his gaze.

"Oh my god, you did! Was I your first love?" 

"What?" Keith splutters and finally meets his eyes. There is trace of fear there, a vulnerability that clutches at Lance's heart. "Don't be ridiculous." 

But he's lying, Lance can see it now in his mind's eye: little Keith waiting for his letters. Lance didn't really remember everything they'd talked about back then, but he did remember feeling sorry for the lonely boy who didn't seem to fit in with his peers. 

"Can we start again?" Lance asks. "Just forget all that hap—. I mean, like start off on a clean slate!" He back-peddles as Keith bristles up again.

"Why do I even bother," Keith sighs and turns around. He walks over to grab his discarded jacket off the couch. "I'll let someone else do reviews for this area from now on. Who cares if it'll cut my pay in half!"

"What are you talking about?" Lance trails behind him, strategically placing himself between Keith and the door.

"It means that I'm leaving."

"No, but—" Lance tries.

"No. You hurt me. Think about it, you jackass, and call me if you still remember I exist tomorrow." There is no real venom behind the words, just sadness and when Keith pushes past, Lance can do nothing but let him go.

Hunk finds him fifteen minutes later sitting on Allura's couch, head lolling against the wall.

"I saw Keith leave. You okay, buddy?" Hunk tries as he hovers over Lance.

He sighs and waves the big man off, but Hunk isn't deterred, sitting down next to him. The couch protests and Lance leans forward, hands clasped as he leans against his own thighs.

The silence stretches.

"Am I a bad person?" he finally asks as the pressure becomes intolerable.

"Sometimes," Hunk says. Lance can feel his heart clench, but Hunk continues,"But everyone has their ups and downs. You volunteer to sing for kids for free. You're attentive to everyone, listen and smile at each person you meet, but I don't think you've ever really stopped to think about how your actions affect others. 

"You weave through life, touching so many people. In good ways and bad. I don't think you've really ever stopped. Never tried to gain a single person's attention. Wanted them fully all to yourself."

Each word hits Lance like a bullet from a gun. He takes them in silence, his emotions simmering right below the surface until they boil over. 

"It's not like I mean to hurt anybody!" Lance sits back up, glaring at his friend.

"But you also don't care about what happens after they leave your sight, do you?" The accusation cuts deep.

"Of course I care," Lance hisses and looks back down at the dirty woodgrain.

"I love you, buddy, but you really have a way of floating through life." Hunk snaps his fingers. "You have commitment issues! That's the one."

" _You_ have commitment issues." Lance sulks.

"When's the last time you had a relationship with anyone that lasted more than two weeks? Not an acquaintance, but someone you shared a secret with." Lance starts to reply. "And I don't count, dude." Lance feels his mouth snap shut.

"I don't know! It's not like I keep track!" He throws his hands in the air in aggravation. 

"Think about it. Why is this thing with Keith affecting you so much? It's not like you did much more than have a one-night stand with him. You've had plenty of those in the past."

"I—I don't know," Lance grumbles and watches Hunk get up.

"That might be the problem then." He clasps Lance on the shoulder. "Go home for tonight. We'll take care of things here." And he is gone.

Lance pulls on his coat and changes his shoes before going out. He calls an Uber and waits in the cold night air. The rain has stopped, but the world is wet and clammy, puddles littering the full parking lot. The ride home is quiet. His apartment is dark and with only the cat giving him a bristly welcome before slipping back to sleep in the shadows.

"Don't you be like that too Snookums!" Lance calls, but there is no answer.

* * *

Lance spends the night looking up the offices of the Galra Gazette, reading old articles and new, trying to pinpoint what happened. The first article written by Keith, the silly pen name still gave him pause, was about a year ago, shortly before they graduated. There are dozens of articles since then, mostly about the music industry in the city, but a few dive into the local counties as well. He wrote well, professional, keeping his opinions close to his chest. 

It is nearly three in the morning when Lance finally lands on the article from a month ago and the first mention of Swimming with Sharks. It's different from the rest, the blatant personal appraisal shining through like a slap to the face.

He pulls out his phone.

**I'm sorry about what I did to you. But I WILL make it up to you. I promise.**

* * *

Finding the address for the GG is easy enough. Finding out Keith's last name is more difficult. He calls up his mom and asks her to send over his old letters, but instead of complying she guilts him into coming over for dinner instead.

He goes that night after his shift. Drives his beat up Corolla out of town and into the suburbs. He gets tackled by his nieces when he gets to the door and after some good humored yelling he sneaks up to the attic. He digs through old grade reports and projects and finally gets to a manila envelope. He opens it and with a groan the metal clip bends and snaps. He sighs and drops the tiny piece of metal back into the box. He peeks into the envelope and there, finally, are the letters.

He brushes off the dust on his knees as he climbs down the steps, envelope securely under his arm. He declines the offer to stay the night and drives back home.

**Look what I found.**

Lance sends a picture of the Juilliard letter, so full of hope and childish optimism.

* * *

It's still raining two days later as Lance types out the twitter message for the millionth time and erases it again. He types, edits, writes, sighs. He looks at the message, finger hovering over the send button and finally with a wrench of courage presses send and promptly throws his phone across the room.

His phone hums, but he ignores it and instead pulls on his jacket and walks to the flower shop down the street. He shakes off the rain from the hood of his coat, hair plastered against his forehead.

"Can you do a bouquet and do a delivery?" he asks the shopkeep who smiles and nods. Lance looks around the freshly cut flowers and finally points to stem of blue five petal flowers with a tiny yellow nub at the center. 

"Can you do a bouquet around these?" 

He watches as the flowers are expertly bundled together and wrapped in green and blue paper and cellophane. He gives the address and name, then blushes furiously when the shopkeep gives him a look.

"Do you want to write a card?" she asks.

Lance takes the pen and scribbles a note.

He closes the card, but then opens it again adding a heart next to his own name before closing it again and handing it over.

"Can you send it today before five?" he asks. She nods, chattering as he pays.

The flat is sullenly quiet again, but it feels like the air has cleared a little bit. He's tried.

His phone lights up again where he's left it on his bed.

> Lance **@sharkboi**  
>  I'm sorry. I didn't do what I should have. I failed as a friend. And I don't expect you to forgive me, but I do want to say I'm sorry. And that I'll never forget you. I know you're angry, but just give me another shot? I'll be here. Whenever. Wherever.
> 
> ….
> 
> Have you seen this? Is it about **@blondvelvet**?? **@sharkboi**
> 
> **@sharkboi** are you okay? What's happening?
> 
> New song coming out? Heartbreaker? **@sharkboi**

The thread went on and on. No mentions of Keith or any of his friends, but the fans were already speculating. The good, the bad and the ugly in troves.

* * *

It is three days of sighing at work and his boss giving him _those looks_. But then it is Saturday again.There are no gigs this weekend and Lance finds himself once again on Hunk's couch. Their minute cold war had ended when Hunk had asked if he wanted to come over to try some new cake he'd made and it is like nothing had happened.

"Did you see this?" Shay thrusts her phone at him once again and Lance is tempted to throw the damn cursed object across the room. It's have the reason he's in this damned mess.

It's twitter again, a picture. He yanks the phone out of her hand and she titters. It's a photo of a small flower sitting awkwardly in a glass of water. A small branch of delicate blue on yellow. Above it there is a caption:

> Shironanagins **@shiro_tweets**  
>  Look what I found on Keith's desk this morning. Forget-me-not's?  
> 

It is dated two days ago. He blinks and opens up the picture full screen. He can make out the card underneath the glass of water, a ring of condensation already making the cardboard wet. He feels a sudden jolt of excitement. He hadn't thrown them away!

Lance gives the phone back graciously before pulling out his phone and promptly going through @shiro_tweet's photos. There are a few mirror selfies and holy cow is this guy buff, but there are also a few from the office, one of a sleeping Keith just captioned: _6am deadline_

He might have saved that one.

* * *

It's been almost three weeks since he'd sent the flowers and there might have been a certain amount of desperation in his voice as he sings his song at the request of the audience to end their set that night. He had been reluctant but a look from Hunk and he relents.

The crowd breaks into applause and with a wave they walk off stage. The Rift is more of a student joint and with midterms over it was filled to bursting. It is smaller than the Lounge, but the crowd is lively and the bar lets them play whatever they wanted. 

Lance helps pack the van and then looks back. "I'm gonna go in for a bit. You wanna come?" He asks no one in particular. Hunk declines—he has work in the morning. So, Lance smiles, gives hugs all around and slips back inside.

It is loud, the speakers turned up and the dance floor is full of rolling bodies. Lance heads toward the bar and catching the bartenders eye he orders—

"Something sweet," comes a voice from behind. Lance turns and then startles, standing up straighter as Keith stands in front of him. "And I'll have another one of these please," he says and taps his glass.


	6. Epilogue

A warm—something—wakes Keith up with a start. A familiar paw bats at his cheek and he groans, pushing the cat down and off the bed. She lands soundlessly on the ground only to hop back up onto the bed. Keith blinks into the darkness, trying to see if they'd left the bedroom door closed. It's not.

The cat lands on his chest and makes a chirping noise. A car zooms past on the streets, headlights slipping through the cracks in the blinds. The sun isn't even up yet.

Lance groans, tugs at Keith's waist as he curls up around him. Keith sighs, fingers dragging through brown locks and dark fur as the cat settles to purr on his chest and Lance buries his nose into his collarbone. There's a moment of quiet as Keith lies on his back, contemplating his life, wide awake in the middle of the night, trapped under two obnoxious creatures he begrudgingly opened his heart to.

There's a pinprick of pain on his bare chest as four tiny claws sink into his flesh. He sits up only to see the cat's eyes flash in the dark before it bounds out the open door.

Lance groans, jerked to the side as Keith brings his fingers to massage the devil cat's work.

"Keith?" Lance mumbles into the blankets. His hand is still splayed around Keith's waist.

"Your cat hates me," Keith grumbles, satisfied that she hadn't actually drawn blood, this time. Lance pulls him back down, hands snaking around him more securely.

"She doesn't hate you. She couldn't hate anyone," his words are still muffled, a puff of breath against Keith's shoulder. He rolls onto his side, hand easily slipping into Lance's hair. He swears if Lance could purr he would, instead he groans, shifting closer until his hair tickles Keith's nose. A hand slides down Keith's back, fingers ever so soft against his bare skin. It makes him shift, shiver, his skin heating up as a wayward knee slips between his legs.

"It's like three in the morning," Keith whispers into the dark, but only gets a non-committal noise in response. That devious hand slips up his side, down his ribs, up again to his chest and Keith can feel his breath waver.

"Hey," Lance whispers. His fingers slip down again, coiling around Keith's waist once more to pull him closer. Lance tilts his head up, eyes catching the sparse light.

"Hey." Keith swallows, bites his lip, fingers slipping up Lance's neck, burying into his hair. It's silky smooth under his fingers, even the bad-bedhead and dim lighting doing nothing to diminish how gorgeous the other man looks in his bed.

He's stared too long. Lance has that knowing smile on his lips and the impish grin does nothing to settle the sudden butterflies in his belly. Keith bites his lip, eyes trailing down to Lance's. It's all the invitation he seems to need as Lance pushes forward, hand cupping Keith's cheek, lips finding lips. It's almost chaste, sweet, but then he nips. He pulls out a groan with his talented tongue and Keith can't help but gasp. Lance takes the moment of weakness and runs with it. The kiss turns wet and sloppy, soon diving into nips against his cheek, his jaw. He can feel the stubble against his cheek. 

Keith slides his knee up, satisfied by the shudder it elicits. Lance pulls away, the soft moan turning into a full out groan as Keith pulls him closer.

"I did say." Keith's voice is a hushed whisper, breath dancing against Lance's lips. He lets his fingers uncurl from his hair, dragging his blunt nails down Lance's back, down until he feels his beautifully toned ass between his palms. He squeezes, and Lance groans, pushing against his knee for more friction.

"You awake?" Keith whispers against his collarbones hand dragging painfully close to where he knows Lance wants it.

"It's too early to play g-games." Lance gasps and then groans as Keith gives him a punishing bite, marring his already blemished skin. Keith might not be able to see them, but he knows they are there, the starmap of bites and bruises all across Lance's collarbones and chest.

"Who said I was playing?" Keith asks. He lifts up, hands boxing Lance neatly into the mattress. He is almost tempted to turn on the light, but it would make the moment somehow less. 

Another car passes by, the streak of light and Lance's eyes gleam once before pulling at Keith, the room fading into darkness around them once more.

"You're gorgeous," Lance mutters and Keith can feel his cheek flame; he's tempted to pull away, but doesn't, instead grinds their hips together effectively shutting Lance up.

He leans toward Lance, catches a rosy bud in-between his teeth. There is a taste of metal and he lets his lips roll around it, Lance squirms beneath him, there is a gasp and a shudder and another groan as Keith bites down lightly. He pulls off, licking his lips, hand going to his handy-work twisting the small stud.

"Fuck," Lance groans and arches his back toward the touch.

"That's better." Keith muses and lets his hand slip to the other nipple, twisting the small ring between his fingers. "So do you want me to blow you or fuck you?"

"Keith!" Lance gasps as he gives his nipple another twist.

"I didn't hear an answer," Keith lets his fingers trail away, down smooth skin to ribs and then down, tormenting. He can feel warm, sticky sweat under his fingers as he slips them further. He leans back as Lance refuses to answer. His chest is heaving and as Keith trails his hands up to his thighs he shudders.

"Fuck," Lance gasps as Keith trails his fingers down to his ass.

"I wonder if you're still loose from before," Keith mutters and pushes Lance's knees up a bit, fingers finally finding their goal. It's still a bit wet, a bit slippery and he slides a finger in without too much resistance.

"F-fucking's good." Lance finally answers, clenching around his finger and Keith feels his eyes drawn up. Lance is blanketed in shadows, but he can see his bare chest heaving, fingers clutching against the comforter they'd chucked to the side. His hand snakes up into the pillows and then something lands on the bed. It's the bottle of lube they keep tucked away between the headboard and mattress.

"Twice in one night? You sure?" Keith asks. They've done it before, but it always leaves whoever is taken wrecked by the end.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Lance says, and even though his voice could have been steadier he sounds certain.

Keith strokes the outside of his thigh once and then reaches out for the bottle. He pulls his hand free before coating his fingers liberally. He misses a bit and slick slides down Lance's thigh.

"Fuck that's cold," Lance gasps and sits up. Keith scoops the lube up the best he can, lips catching Lance's. He clicks the tube shut and chucks it onto the bed, his clean hand going to cup his cheek so he can deepen the kiss. He pulls away as he deems the lube warm enough and tries again. It is easier than the first time that night, stretching him out. Those long fingers twine around his bicep and Lance pulls him into another bruising kiss as he rocks against his hand. Keith twists, adds a third finger, lube squelching with every shallow thrust. He teases, twists, thrusts, keeping it just light enough to keep Lance on that maddening edge of building need.

It doesn't take long for Lance to pant against his lips, groaning, biting. And finally he breaks.

"Please-please-please-please," the litany of pleads surround them and Keith stretches his fingers out again, leaving Lance open and wanting before trusting in again, to the second knuckle.

"Please what, sweetheart?" Keith nips at his ear and Lance clenches so hard he has a hard time pulling his fingers free.

"I need you—"Lance has to swallow before continuing."I need you inside me right now, you damn bastard!"

The words go straight to Keith's cock and he has to take a shuddering breath to calm himself. "Condom," he commands and slides fingers out. He sits back, his dick suddenly painfully hard as he watches Lance scramble up to the night stand, ass up in the air as he stumbles a moment. Keith can see his hands shake as he grabs the box, tearing one out.

"H-here," Lance says, pants as he shoves the condom toward Keith. Keith arches his brow, leaning back on his hands a little, legs splayed not bothering to hide his own arousal. He can feel Lance's eyes on him, the want and hunger. Lust.

Lance thrusts it at him again and he finally accepts it. "Turn around," he commands and Lance is more than happy to comply.

He turns and lands on all fours, leaning against his forearms. Keith can see the slick on his upper thighs, his ass and he has to take another steeling breath as he unwraps the condom and slides it on. He grabs the bottle of lube and ever so slowly, teasing, slicks up his fingers, his cock. He throws the tube away again, hand gliding to rest on Lance's lower back. He's quaking, thighs shaking under Keith's light touch.

"You doing okay?" Keith asks, words warm with affection.

"Yeah," comes the reply—a near sob.

"Good." Keith thrusts in as far as he can go. 

Lance keens, the sound a stark contrast to their hushed whispers from before. Keith pulls back and tries again, angling just right it seems as he feels Lance's knees tremble, slacken just a fraction, a splintering moan ripped out of his throat. He's never been the quiet type after all.

Keith shudders. Lance truly knows no shame as he begs around his cock, pushing back the best he can and Keith gives it to him until he can't make out a single coherent word as each try breaks into a string of gasping moans sounding something along the line of Keith's name. Keith’s fingers dig into those slim hips, leaving perfect bruises behind in their wake as he whispers praise.

Lance has a hand on his own cock, and with a startled grunt Keith feels him clench down and come. He thrusts in once more, twice. And he can just make out Lance gasping something. Keith watches him twist to look back, eyes black, breathing hard and so beautiful it takes him a moment to realize what's happening.

Lance pulls back before Keith can protest, the condom is rolled off and chucked to the floor as Lance takes him into his mouth, as far as he can and it's all it takes to knock Keith over the edge. His hands grip into hair and he comes. It's almost painful, feels like it lasts forever and no time at all as Lance finally pulls away, swallowing and then going back for seconds, licking him clean. He watches Lance wipe a bit of come off his lips and smile. It's more blissed out than impish this time but it has the same effect as Keith pulls him up into a kiss.They tumble back and Lance squeaks as Keith wraps his legs around his waist.

"Careful," Lance berates him, but relaxes into his arms and is asleep in seconds. Keith sighs and pulls at the covers and for the second time that night drifts off almost immediately.

* * *

It's the smell of coffee that wakes Keith up the next morning. He groans, sore and exhausted. He bats at the tail sliding against his cheek. Why the cat always wants to sleep on top of him, he cannot fathom.

"Lance?" he calls out, but gets no reply. He sits up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. The bed is a mess, the covers halfway off the side and one of their pillows on the floor. 

Keith slides out, feet hitting the ground. He walks up to the dresser and pulls out a clean shirt and briefs before following the cat out the door.

"Lance?" he tries again, walking into the kitchen. The coffee is dripping and there's a stack of pancakes on a plate, but no Lance. How he could manage all that after getting fucked twice the night before makes Keith's heart hurt with a mixture of feelings he can't quite name.

"This isn't funny!" He calls out again. Their apartment isn't large enough to play hide-and-seek in. He walks to the bathroom and finding that empty as well he goes through his normal morning routine minus a shower, ignoring the terrible tangle that is his hair. He walks out with his toothbrush in his mouth and finds his phone half buried under a pile of clothes. He checks them but there's nothing but a few work emails that he promptly ignores. 

He's about to call Lance when the front door opens. "Finally!" he calls out. "I was just about to send for a search party—" His words die in his throat as Lance smiles at him, a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

"What's the occasion," Keith asks, suddenly defensive. He's certain he hasn't forgotten any important dates. Has he? He tries to go through the past three years, but nothing comes to mind. 

"For my prince." Lance smiles and hands him the flowers as he toes off his shoes and hangs his coat.

"What for?" Keith asks, suddenly curious. It's not uncommon for Lance to do things like spontaneous dates or showing up at his work unannounced to take him out for coffee. Or bring him food if he's down to the wire with a deadline, but this is the first time he's given him flowers, not since—

He takes a closer look. And frowns.

"Lance?"

"What, babe?" Lance leans in for a kiss, but Keith avoids it deftly.

"What's all this?" There's something bubbling under his skin. That sliver of doubt and apprehension that is curled around his very core even after all these years. Festering.

There must have been something in his voice because he watches Lance's smile freeze. He blinks, suddenly serious.

"It's a good thing. I hope. Come on." Lance pulls Keith into the kitchen and pushes him into a chair. He grabs a vase and fills it with water before tearing up a small fertilizer package and mixing it in. He then takes the flowers and carefully places them into the vase before bringing it to the table. It holds white roses and forget-me-nots, their gentle blue bringing out the crisp white. 

"What's going on?" Keith asks, arms crossed. Lance swallows and darts back to gather the pancakes and picking up jam and syrup from the fridge. He places them onto the table before sitting down. Lance is nervous, fingers twitching as he pulls them onto his lap.

"I just wanted to do something nice," Lance says, trying for casual, but Keith can hear the misdirection in his voice.

He watches Lance take a pancake off the plate to his own and smothering it with syrup.

"Lance," Keith says. Anxiety roils in his veins. 

"Okay, fine!" Lance jumps up, chair clattering to the ground behind him. "I guess I can't do one nice thing without you trying to—I don't know!! One up me!" He's going for his pocket and Keith can feel his own anger flare.

"What are you talki—" He's cut short as Lance slams a small box in front of him. He's breathing hard, face red and then it seems to drain of blood. Keith looks at him and then down at the small box.

"I don't understand," Keith says, lips drawn tight. It was also not-unlike Lance to get him something nice, but.

"Just open it?" Lance pleads, still hovering over the table, pale as a ghost.

"Is this you telling me you're dying?" Keith asks, but the joke falls flat as Lance shakes his head once, not meeting Keith's eyes.

He takes the box, heart painfully tight in his chest. It's black velvet, reminds him of those cheesy proposal ring boxes off movies.

"Are you proposing to me?" Keith asks, flipping the box over in his hand.

"Oh, fucking hell," Lance turns and grabs the chair off the floor. He sits down and starts eating his soggy pancake. Keith watches for a moment longer before flipping the box right-side up and opening it.

Inside there is a small golden band with a flat sapphire embedded into the gold. Keith runs his finger along the edge and feels it. It's perfectly smooth. He shifts the box and it catches the light, gleaming a beautiful deep blue.

"Why can't I do anything nice," Lance grumbles between a bite.

Keith clicks the box shut and places it back on the table. He takes a pancake onto his plate and gets up to fetch a spoon for the jam. He taps a decent amount onto his pancake and smoothes it down to the edges before he starts to eat. 

Minutes pass in silence.

Keith can feel the nervous tap of Lance's foot against the floor, his long legs angled beneath his chair. The tapping stops and Keith looks up.

"Well?" Lance asks, his expression painful.

"Well what?" Keith replies taking another measured bite. He watches Lance swallow. And swallow again to gather himself.

"Keith," Lance begins and stalls again.

"Yes?" Keith knows he's being cruel, but he just can't help himself as he watches Lance squirm in his seat.

"I know our past is a but muddled." It's clearly a prepared speech and Keith leans back, finger tapping onto the box. It distracts Lance and his eyes fall where his hand is on top of the black velvet. "But I'd like to not only be your first love but your last." The words come out soft but clear and the look of ferocious determination jumpstarts Keith's heart anew.

"You don't have to accept now. Or ever if you don't want to but I know where my heart stands. I think I've known all along. I think I loved that lonely boy back in elementary school. And the smartass freshman at university. And the dick reporter who finally re-inserted himself into my life." He looks away at this point, just for a second before his piercing gaze is back. It devours Keith, sears him from the inside out. 

It's Keith's turn to swallow as Lance falls silent. He looks back at the box. He lifts it up, willing his hands to be still. He flips it open and pulls the ring out. He can feel those eyes watching his every move as he takes it out, placing the box back on the table.

"I guess you'll do," Keith says and slips the ring onto his finger. 

It's a perfect fit.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> You made it to the end! Thank you for joining me on this ride!! You can find me: [tumblr](http://bluphacelia.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/blu_tweets). 
> 
> I'd also love prompts if anyone wants to throw me one, my inbox is always open!


End file.
